The Other One
On the day I dare myself to have a drink in the city, alone, I end up sitting behind you. Someone I almost dated, or would you say we did? At the time, you had a girlfriend. You swore, to both of us, that men and women could just be friends (you were angry then). You bought me a CD, sent me emails about music, and one time, waited an hour for me outside the metro. We went to record shops, cafes, and talked about poetry. Once, over an espresso, you taught me the word tyvärr, which translates to English as “unfortunately,” but is used in Swedish to mean “no.”
I’m not sure that is you. Was your neck that thin? But the orange retro sweater looks like something you’d wear. The last time we ran into each other (the time we did not say hello) was at a Christmas party. I was pregnant with my second child. I hadn’t seen you since years before the first. I had just shown a new mother, a beautiful ballerina, how to express milk into the bathroom sink. And then you arrived. And someone told me you were with her so I gathered you had just had a baby. We stared at each other across the room. I had already told my husband I was ready to go. To say now I wanted to stay, to talk to you, would be an unraveling.
We once sat in a café not far from this wine bar. We had been walking for over an hour, talking and throwing small white flowers at each other. Every instant was so full of potential it felt thick. I think that was the day you had waited for me outside the metro. You were a little annoyed with me, but mostly with yourself for waiting. Soon after we sat down at the café, you bolted up, saying, “That’s my girlfriend.” You hadn’t mentioned you had a girlfriend. That was the sulky Finnish one. She had been sitting in another corner of the café, watching us. I followed you to her table. You introduced us then asked her, “How often do you come here?” And she replied, “I’ve been here a few times since you first took me.” I have also been there a few times since.
After that, I ran into you on campus in the sliding glass doors and you said she was upset. You said she said I was eating you with my eyes, and maybe I was. I had this reoccurring fantasy at the time of how you’d stop by the one room I was renting in that large house on Lidingö. You were working at a psych ward out there. And in the fantasy, you’d come by after work and I’d blow you. I had this fantasy so many times, belly down on that single bed, that I’m not sure it didn’t happen.
And I’m not sure that it is you sitting in front of me either. But it could be you, older, thinner, with more facial hair. And the dark-haired woman beside you could be the ballerina. The two of you stand up to leave, you hail a cab, she slides in, and then you turn around and look directly at me before sliding in beside her.
